


on va voir

by rodrikstark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, College Football, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friday Night Lights references, Mentions of Blood, Steve Rogers Doesn't Like Bullies, college football au, mentions of past sexual harrassment, steve rogers speaks french
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrikstark/pseuds/rodrikstark
Summary: (college football AU) when star QB bucky barnes’ broken arm ends his season one game too early, everyone turns to the back up—and your friend from high school—steve rogers.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51





	1. part 1

**Author's Note:**

> he’s mentioned in the summary, but there’s not much bucky in this fic, sorry! i came up with “Buchanan ‘Arm like a Cannon’ Barnes” so that must count for something. also ft. helen cho, sam wilson, and billy russo (netflix’s the punisher)

_hey, i saw the news about barnes_

**Yeah. It’s not great**

_is he okay?_

**He’s pretty devastated but he’ll be okay**

**Doesn’t want to talk right now though**

**Trying to give him space**

_what are you going to do?_

**Besides let down this whole team?**

_oh my god, don’t be overdramatic. call me?_

You’re pretty sure you haven’t heard Steve’s voice in at least three years, but he doesn’t hesitate to dial your number. You can hear the worry in his voice as soon as he says, “Hey.” 

“Steve, you can’t say that about yourself. Where’s your clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose?” You tuck your phone between your chin and left shoulder, reaching for your laptop at the edge of your bed.

“Ha ha,” he replies. “I’m freaking out. The bowl game’s next week.” 

You pull up your calendar app, double-checking the date. “I know. My roommate Helen and I just bought tickets.”

“What?!”

“Surprise!”

“Why?” Steve whines. You can almost hear him facepalm over the phone.

You laugh. “Well if you’re actually going to play for once, we wanna come. We’re gonna get shirts with your face printed on them.”

“This is my literal nightmare and you’re going to immortalize it in screenprint?”

“Cute, right?”

“Please don’t. I can’t believe any of this is happening.” He sounds so distraught.

“You’ve practiced, haven’t you? With Wilson?”

“Sure, but I’m no Buchanan _‘Arm Like a Cannon’_ Barnes.”

You roll your eyes. “And you never will be. Can’t you just have fun? Isn’t football supposed to be about fun?”

He chuckles, “It _is_ fun. To watch. Comfortably. From the sidelines.”

“And just imagine how much better it will be under the lights.”

Steve sighs. “You’re really coming to the game, huh?” he asks, his voice going quiet and serious.

You swallow, feeling a bit of doubt at your brilliant decision to see him play a live game for the first time in years. “Um, yeah.” You roll over onto your stomach and type _custom crewnecks_ in a Google search. “We only got cheap nosebleeds, but I’ll see you on the Jumbotron.”

“Right.” He pauses for a second. You can distantly hear someone calling his name. “Hey, I gotta go. Uh…” He hesitates, then says, “Hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“You won’t.” You click open the first couple of links on the results page, comparing some options and trying not to think about why he cares about disappointing you, when his whole team, his whole school, depends on him. “Bye, Steve.”

After hanging up, you spend the next ten minutes researching screenprinting methods until your phone lights up with another text from him.

**Thanks for the pep talk :)**

**I’m not flying back after the game btw**

**PGP?**

Post-game pizza. You send several texts in rapid succession:

_pizza sounds good !_

_remember, cap:_

_clear_

_eyes_

_full_

_hearts_

_can’t_

_lose_

— — — 

Sitting on a cold metal bench in an open-air stadium for hours in late December has to amount to one of the poorer decisions you’ve made in your life, but with a hot drink, woolen hat and gloves, and your college best friend Helen to share body heat with, you make do.

“He’s good!” she says as Steve completes another pass, earning a first down. Three quarters in, and Steve’s team trails by only ten points. 

You smile up at his pixelated image on the Jumbotron. Number 5, jogging down the field, shouting at his team, and—judging by his heaving breaths—giving it his all. “Yeah. He always has been.”

She tries to nudge you suggestively, but because you’ve both linked arms tightly, she basically just leans her weight against you for a second. “His _butt_ looks good too.” 

You laugh, because it does. It’s distracting, frankly.

“I can see why you had a thing for him in high school.”

“It wasn’t a _thing_.”

“You told me you kissed him!”

“Because he won our senior year homecoming game! Anyone would have kissed him.”

Most memories, knowledge, and friends you gained from high school have faded from your mind, but this image you’ll always remember: after diving into the endzone himself to score a winning touchdown in the last 20 seconds of a rivalry game, Steve Rogers had run to the home sideline with the rest of the team to see his adoring fans. Simultaneously exhausted and elated, he ripped off his helmet, some damp golden hair sticking to his forehead. He panted, his tight and grass-stained uniform stretching around his narrow torso. The other players clapped and sang along to the fight song, waving to the crowd and heartily shaking Steve’s shoulder pads.

But Steve hadn’t been singing or paying attention to the people calling his name in celebration. His eyes searched the crowd, squinting a little, until his gaze landed on you, near the front of the student section.

— — — 

Had you not ended up in the same French class as Steven “Cap” Rogers your senior year, very little about your life would have led to you becoming friends with the history-making quarterback. Just two weeks into first semester, after an awkward in-class partner conversation about what you would do if you ever studied _à l'étranger_ , he approached you about tutoring him. You agreed, knowing the importance of GPA in remaining eligible to play. Wanting to do your part to help the team.

You thought Steve would approach the situation with some level of covertness, in the library after school or something, but his struggles with French—and the time he spent with you as a result—never seemed like something he wanted to hide. 

In fact, a few days each week, you found yourself sitting across from him at the end of the cafeteria table unofficially reserved for football players, the din and chaos of the lunchroom fading to the background as Steve paid you undivided attention, his blue gaze intense enough that you sometimes tripped over your words. 

Patiently, you pointed out errors in his essays, helped him conjugate verbs, and asked him to describe pictures. While his accent sounded too American and he struggled to remember the vocabulary, sometimes he made sly comments about his obnoxious friends under his breath. He always seemed pleased with himself when you understood his butchered French enough to laugh at his jokes.

You got to know his teammates, and they all treated you kindly. Steve, however, they teased relentlessly, especially after he bought you little pink macarons and flaky croissants from a local shop. To thank you for helping him study for the midterm test.

When your friends saw Steve Rogers bring you a little paper bag of French pastries, they were dumbfounded but ecstatic for you. They constantly suggested that you make a move, but you knew that your friendship with him couldn’t go any further, especially with the jealous looks you were getting. You absolutely hated having everyone’s attention. You just wanted Steve’s. 

— — — 

You changed your mind about staying _just friends_ with him on that chilly Friday night, once you realized that with the crowd cheering, band blasting, and lights shining, Steve Rogers had been staring only at you. With his ears and cheeks flushed pink from exertion and blue eyes twinkling, he gave you this big grin, and a little salute. 

_Yeah,_ you think. _Anyone would have kissed him._

And you did. Later, in his car, outside your house after he drove you home from post-game pizza. He could barely get out a final _Goodnight_ when you leaned over and touched your lips to his, the gearshift pressing into your stomach, your palm brushing his cheek, and your nails scraping lightly into his hair. He pushed back into you, moaning a little into the kiss, which was a quiet thing you wanted burned in your brain forever. His fingers curled around your wrist, squeezing for a second; he sighed before pulling back. 

He furrowed his brow, but his cheeks glowed. “I thought…you and Russo.”

Billy, the junior running back in your math class. Compared to the rest of the team, he acted like an arrogant asshole sometimes, but his charm and humor helped convince you to go to the dance with him. A few weeks ago, he had interrupted your tutoring session with Steve to ask you to homecoming.

You were confused. “What? No.” Billy had asked you to the dance with a stupid _math pun_. You didn’t even think you’d spend a lot of time with him, just take pictures together and dance to a song or two. “We’re just friends.”

Steve stared at you, eyes widening slightly. “Oh. That’s not…” He trailed off. “Never mind. Okay.” He looked down at his lap. “Sorry. I uh…Goodnight.”

— — — 

That painfully awkward first kiss had taken place approximately twenty two hours before Steve Rogers and Billy Russo got into a fistfight in the middle of homecoming. You had spent the last three songs with your friends when the commotion started. You ran over, breaking through the circle of bodies surrounding them. You tried to yell over the music for them to stop, but Steve seemed determined to draw blood, and you didn’t even know why. It took three linemen to pull them apart.

The Rogers and Russo duo, once unstoppable, sat on opposite ends of the same sideline for the rest of the semester, nearly jeopardizing Steve’s college football career. Because Steve refused to explain what happened, you stopped going over to his lunch table, and he stopped inviting you. 

After winter break, the tension had simmered down enough for you to have civil, even friendly conversations in class, but things never went back to normal with Steve. You used to text each other every day about your college plans, opinions on the latest movie, and how much the French people would judge you if you ever actually travelled to their country.

But ever since that night, and for the last three years Steve has been playing for an out-of-state college, you’ve really only texted occasionally, and about one thing: football. 

Ultimately, you and Helen watch Steve Rogers play the best game of his life. Pass after pass soars a beautiful arc into the outstretched hands of Sam Wilson, and Steve thinks quick enough on his feet to evade the aggressive D-line in the pocket. You sit on the edge of your seat in the 4th quarter when it becomes a one possession game, but the sheer _will_ you desperately try to mentally transfer to Steve and his teammates falls short. They lose, 38-35.


	2. part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-game pizza and long-kept secrets revealed.

Steve texts you the section of the stadium that family and friends of the team can access after the game. You and Helen walk there and unzip your jackets to expose the _GO, ROGERS!_ shirts underneath, and now shiver together in the concourse.

“Are you nervous?” she asks with a grin.

You roll your eyes and fight back a smile. “No,” you say. “We’re just gonna grab some pizza with him and that’s it.”

“Okay.” She winks at you, and you shove her.

Some of the families around you start clapping, and you look up to see the team pour out of a big doorway, all weighed down by their equipment bags. After several seconds of watching the sad parade, you spot Steve and wave. He peels off from the rest of the guys, who walk towards large coach buses parked just outside the stadium. To your surprise, two familiar players follow after him.

His teammates laugh as they approach you and see your shirts, printed with a picture of Steve in uniform, minus the helmet, which you pulled off his school’s website. Steve, standing between the two of them, scratches the back of his head and blushes. “You really did it, huh?” His throat sounds dry.

Steve looks only a little different than you remember him. Taller. Thicker. Annoyingly, he’s cuter, too. He wears a dark fluffy parka, gray sweats, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. His beanie doesn’t manage to hide his slightly reddened ears.

You glance down at your torso. “Yeah. Had to make sure everyone knows we’re your biggest fans,” you respond with as much cheekiness you can muster.

“Nah, that’s my ma. But, she watched the game from home, so I guess you’re my biggest fans here.” He smiles nervously, and you can feel every ounce of his attention on you. You feel almost breathless.

Then, he turns. “You must be Helen?”

Helen sticks out her mitten. “Helen Cho. Nice to meet you.”

“You gonna introduce us to your cute friends, Rogers?” the wide receiver asks with a nudge.

Steve introduces you and Helen to Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. Compared to other receivers and quarterbacks across the country, neither player is that impressive on their own, but their teamwork, coordination, and co-captainship on and off the field have gained them enough national attention that you actually feel a little nervous meeting them.

Helen grimaces. “Sorry about the loss.”

Barnes smiles a little as he pushes his dark hair back with his right hand. His left arm is in a cast. “Eh, it’s okay. These guys did great.”

Steve sighs sadly, which Wilson notices. He slaps his back. “Not even the best quarterback in the world can help when D gives up five touchdowns, Rogers.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve replies, his spirits lifted a little.

You ask, “Are you guys gonna join us for pizza?” You didn’t anticipate having anyone but Steve and Helen at this dinner, but having additional personnel could ease the tension you feel from being this close to him for the first time in years.

Wilson laughs. “Nah, we’re flying back. Rogers just really wanted us to meet you.” He winks.

“Don’t keep the punk out too late,” Barnes says as he begins to walk backwards, toward the coach buses. Wilson follows after him, chuckling. “He likes to be in bed by 11.”

— — —

You, Helen, and Steve go to the same restaurant for PGP as you did in high school. The familiar smell of oily food and the mere sight of Steve sitting across from you in your usual booth—looking more mature but otherwise just as sweet and handsome as years ago—overwhelms you. He took off his beanie when you entered the restaurant, his blond hair just long and messy enough that you wish you could comb your fingers through it.

Having Helen there makes the situation a hundred times easier, since she and Steve can exchange dozens of small talk questions about football and med school applications while you smile and laugh, chime in when appropriate, but mostly nurse your soda. Helen, as your best friend, knows her crucial role in breaking the tension and plays the part diligently, no matter how much she wants you and Steve to get together.

“What’s your major, Steve?” she asks, with half-eaten pizza in one hand.

He hesitates. “Uh, history.” Then he carefully reads the label on his beer for the tenth time tonight. “And French.”

You frown. “What?”

Steve takes a long sip of beer then clears his throat. “Yeah. I’m actually gonna study abroad in a few weeks.” He puts his beer down with a tap. “It’s why I’m not going back to school with the guys.”

He keeps his eyes trained away from you, but you stare fiercely at him, analyzing all this new information. Helen doesn’t know about the whole French tutoring thing, so she charges ahead with genuine curiosity. “Will you be going to Paris? I have restaurant recommendations if you want some.”

Steve glances at you, lingering, before looking to Helen. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

— — —

After dropping Steve off at his mom’s house, Helen pokes your shoulder. “What was that?”

You blink at her, starting the car again. “What?”

She narrows her eyes. “You seemed weird at the end there.”

You shrug as you pull away from the curb and start toward your shared apartment. “It’s nothing. I tutored him in French. That’s how we became friends.”

Helen gasps dramatically. “And now he’s suddenly a _connoisseur_? Is this a _Mean Girls_ situation? He just wanted an excuse to talk to you?”

“Helen, oh my god.”

“Think about it. Who _majors_ in French?”

You laugh, insisting, “Plenty of people major in French! For plenty of practical reasons.”

Helen shakes her head. “Look, if you don’t at least tryto tap that hot quarterback who clearly likes you, consider our friendship over.”

— — —

At your apartment, you dump all your winter gear on the floor and fall back onto your couch. Somehow, along the way, Helen had stolen your unlocked phone and promptly pulled up Steve’s contact information. She dangles the phone in front of your face while you look up at her, annoyed. “Call him.” You roll your eyes, but take your phone back. Helen leaves to shower, and you press the little call button.

“Hi,” Steve answers. “You guys got home okay?”

“Yeah.” You let out a long exhale. “How’s your ma?”

“She’s good. She says hi.” He pauses. “Thanks for asking.”

“So.” You hesitate, thinking about the best way to justify calling him. “Steve Rogers the French major?”

He chuckles. “My accent’s gotten better, I swear.”

“I really had that big of an influence on you, huh?” You try to keep the mood light.

“You did,” he says. His tone is serious.

You chew at your bottom lip for a few seconds before finally embracing Helen’s _go for it_ attitude. “Rogers, can I ask you something?”

“Um, sure.”

“What happened at homecoming?” You brace yourself. “With Billy?”

A heavy pause. “This isn’t the best conversation to have over the phone.”

“I don’t care,” you retort.

He stays quiet for a long time, what feels like a full minute. You pick at a worn spot on your couch, waiting.

Then, he starts. “Russo had said shit about you, in the locker room. About you guys…hooking up or whatever.” He clears his throat. “Bragged about it.”

_Oh._ Slowly, your mind starts anxiously filling in the gaps, thinking about what Billy might have said about you to Steve and his friends. You try to pinpoint the next question to ask, of the dozens racing through your mind. “And you believed him?”

"I was a stupid kid. I realized, that night when you—that he was lying.” He has an edge to his voice.

Even though most of the pieces start to click into place, you still don’t know how to feel. Your heartbeat starts to pick up in pace, remembering how confused and scared you had felt seeing the same, sweet Steve who once bought you macarons seizing Billy Russo by the collar. You’re angry with Billy, for sure, but do you also feel sorry for him, the way Steve basically beat his face in with bloody fists? Or pissed at Steve, for risking his college career to—what—defend your honor?

You put your face in your hand and focus on breathing. “So you beat the shit out of him?”

“Remember a second ago when I said I was stupid?”

His slight condescension irks you. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “He was telling everyone on the team. I was furious.”

_Everyone._ Tears start to well in your eyes. You hold your phone a little away from your face, in a vain attempt to hide your emotional reaction from him.

“Please let me come over, or something. We can talk.” You hear rattling metal keys on his end. “I’m on my way. Is that okay?”

You shake your head even though you know he can’t see you. Your face feels heated. At this point, Helen comes out of the shower, her damp black hair dripping on the towel around her neck. She notices you crying, hunched over. “What the hell?” she asks, rushing to sit next to you and rub your arms. “What happened?”

You lean into her; she accepts you into a tight hug. On Steve’s end, you hear him yell _“Bye, Ma!”_ and slam a door. He starts quickly descending his stairs.

You grimace. “Steve, I get why you were upset with Billy, but I thought—” You sniffle. “I don’t know what I thought.“ You feel pathetic admitting this. "That we were actually friends, I guess.”

Helen squeezes your torso, which simultaneously makes you feel better and cry a little harder.

Another door shuts. “Wait. What? We _were_ friends.”

“No, I don’t think we were,” you insist bitterly, ready to dig into him, remind him that he basically ghosted you.

“You’re wearing my face on your t-shirt and you’re gonna tell me we aren’t friends?”

You clench your jaw. You have nothing to say to that. You stand up, pacing around your living room. Helen watches you silently.

“I was trying to protect you,” he explains. Snow crunches under his feet as he strides toward his car.

“Jesus, Rogers, the chivalrous shit—”

“No, come on,” he says, a little exasperated. “I made sure every guy on that team knew Russo was a lying shithead. I did everything I could to prevent the rumors from getting out. I would have beat their asses myself if anything happened to you, or if they started treating you differently.”

“ _You_ were the one who ended up treating me differently,” you argue. “The second things got weird and complicated, you were gone.”

Your steps falter slightly. Things got weird and complicated because _you_ decided it would be a good idea to kiss him.

“I couldn’t just…be around you, and not tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly gentle, careful. You hear a car door open. You wait until it shuts, and he starts the car.

“You could have just told me,” you mutter. “I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you,” he pleads, under his breath.

“Steve, do I have to spell it out? I didn’t care what the rest of the team thought about me. I only cared about what _you_ thought. And you made it pretty fucking clear that you didn’t want to be around me after—“

Suddenly the line goes silent, and you look at your phone. He hung up on you.

You show Helen your phone screen, and she fumes. “The _nerve_.”

As you shake your head in disbelief, your phone lights up again, this time with a video call. You wipe away your tears and answer, settling back down on the couch.

Steve sits in his car, not driving, poorly lit by the interior light, and he doesn’t miss a beat in your conversation. “I liked you, the whole time. No matter what Russo said, even when I thought what he was saying might be true. I _liked_ you.”

He sounds so earnest, a part of you wishes you had let him come over.

He continues. “You were way smarter than me, and you put up with my dumb friends. And, if I’m being completely honest with you, I didn’t really need a French tutor. I just liked talking to you. About movies, about football… whatever.“ 

Off to the side, Helen pumps her fist in triumph. You try not to smile at her, or at the sweet nostalgia in Steve’s words.

"I fucking…lost my _mind_ when you kissed me.” He shakes his head, pushing his hand through his blond hair. “I messed up. But I promise you, I didn’t care about any of those rumors. Not one.” He adds, “And I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you weren’t important to me, because you were, and you are.”

You wipe at another errant tear.

He squints a little at his phone screen, then looks down at his lap, embarrassed. He huffs out a small laugh. “Hi, Helen.”

She had nudged her way into your camera’s view to glare at him for making you cry. “Nice speech, Rogers,” she says flatly.

You smile weakly at your friend, then point to her room. “Go pack up for tomorrow, Helen.” She raises her eyebrows at you, silently telling you that she wants details later, but goes.

You move to your own room and settle into the bed, under the covers. Somehow it doesn’t feel too intimate to have Steve watch you lay down on your side and rest your head on your pillow. “What you did was kinda shitty.”

Steve nods slowly.

“I would have…” you trail off. “Reputations, high school, it’s all so stupid. I would have rather had you.” Steve blinks at that. “A friend,” you clarify.

“Me too.” He turns off his car’s engine. The resulting silence makes his apology feel weighty: “I’m sorry.”

You tug at your blanket, wiping at your tears. “It’s okay.”

You are okay. Despite Billy, who turned out to be a bigger asshole than you thought. Despite Steve, who cared so much about being the punch-throwing hero that he opted out of your life. And, despite yourself, your own passivity, how you accepted Steve’s unexplained rejection and lived with it for years.

You feel exhausted. You spent all morning and afternoon jittery at the thought of seeing him again, and then half the night sitting in a cold stadium, flinching every time Steve got tackled too hard, hoping he’d get up each time.

You could thank him for finally telling the truth and end this conversation with as much grace as possible for someone pathetically curled up in a comforter. You could let him study abroad in a few weeks, watch his senior season as QB1 from afar next fall, and maintain the same scarce connection you’ve had with him since it all fell apart.

Steve remains quiet on the line. Letting you think. He looks the tiniest bit hopeful.

Stupidly, and more than anything, you wish he was here with you. Your earlier dinner was the first real conversation you’ve had with him in years, and he still radiates warmth and intelligence, still orders the same pizza, still loves football and his ma. Still speaks French.

“You really lost your mind, huh, Rogers?” You mean to sound flirty, but it comes out sincere.

Surprised, he laughs, all warm-sounding even though he sits in a freezing car. “I barely slept that night. I was so…” He shakes his head bashfully.

“Me too.” You remember lying in your childhood bed, smiling at the ceiling and feeling butterflies beat around in your stomach for hours. “I liked you back,” you say. "Just in case it wasn’t obvious.”

“Dunno how you could like someone that stupid.”

“You’re not so stupid now,“ you reply softly.

He smiles. “Can I come over?” he asks again. “Though, I just realized I don’t even know your address.”

You want to say yes so badly, but… “Maybe not tonight.” You explain, “Helen’s flying home to Cali early in the morning, and I’m gonna take her to the airport.”

“Okay.” He looks away for a second, thinking. “I could pick both of you up. Then after we drop off Helen, we can grab breakfast?”

You press the side of your face into your pillowcase, feeling shy all of a sudden. “Okay.”

“Text me the details.”

You swipe away then send him your address and Helen’s flight information. When you pull the video call back up, you bite your lip at the cute look on his face. “Is this a date, Rogers?”

“It can be whatever you want it to be.”

“So it’s a date,” you whisper.

He lowers his voice, matching your volume. “Can’t wait.” Then, tenderly, _“Bonne nuit.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 3 is ~literally~ just a fluffy epilogue like it’s not even trying to pretend to be something with any semblance of plot. just absolute fluff. coming soon!!


	3. part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve is studying abroad. you miss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: literally just fluff. like i wrote an entire part 3 to just add more fluff. so little plot you could read this as a stand-alone. are we advancing the story? no. just fluff.

You frown at your notebook, flipping through the pages and looking for the outline for your midterm paper, when you hear a big yawn. 

You smile at the sound, tossing the notebook elsewhere. You grab the computer sitting open in the opposite corner of your bed and pull it into your lap. “Aw. Is my baby sleepy?”

On the other end of the call, Steve rubs at one of his eyes with a fist. “No,” he says pathetically.

“You can go to bed,” you laugh.

“But I like watching you study. ‘S cute.” Speaking of cute, he yawns again. “You get all frowny when you try to figure something out.”

You scoff in disbelief. “I must be boring.”

He smiles, all lopsided. His laptop camera does not frame him in a flattering angle. He’s in an Under Armour hoodie, laying against some pillows in a bed probably too small for him, slumping to the side a little. “What’s boring is being in France without my girl.”

Your face warms. He started calling you that after only about a week of taking you out on dates. He had said it jokingly at first, but now he says it with the full intention of reminding you that you’re _his_ , especially when he’s a few thousand miles away.

And six hours ahead of you. You can see his eyelids start to get heavy. “Steve. Go to sleep.”

“You haven’t told me about your day yet.” He blinks lazily, looking at you expectantly.

You sigh, tucking your pencil behind your ear. “Um, Helen and I got a new coffee press.”

“Mmm.”

“We’re gonna try it out tomorrow.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His eyes close completely.

“I dropped a few books off at the library.”

He doesn’t respond to that one, but his lips twitch up in a tiny smile.

“And I missed you.”

His eyes flutter open. “Yeah?”

It had taken less than twenty minutes of sitting across from Steve on your first date to realize, with a punch to your gut, just how much you liked him. That, despite what you told yourself a hundred times the night before, this might not just be a rekindling of a childish high school _thing_. You wanted to know everything about him. You wanted to keep him talking about how much he admires Bucky and Sam as his friends and captains, and what he thinks about his ethics professor. You wanted to hear him discuss the arguments for and against paying student-athletes, wax poetic about the intricacies of orchestrating a perfect offensive play, and explain why he had been missing his ma, even if her worrying could get on his nerves. 

And you discovered—not much later—that a part of you didn’t want him to talk at all. That you enjoyed the times you spent walking aimlessly around New York, holding hands at the movie theater, and humming along to music while making dinner together. Also, the hours that passed by with you just sitting in his lap, kissing him, your palm cupping the back of his skull and his hands rubbing at your thighs and hips.

The three weeks he spent in New York before jetting off to Europe had floated by, sweet but temporary. Something you couldn’t grasp, something you could never hold in a tight fist. 

On the day you dropped him off at the airport, before he could even unload his suitcase from your car trunk, you gave him a faux-leather pocket notebook, insisting that he jot down interesting things about his trip so he could remember to share them with you whenever he got access to wifi. He had taken to sketching on those pages instead, holding up wispy drawings of French architecture to his laptop camera whenever he called you.

“What do you miss about me?” he asked, his voice low in volume and pitch.

“I don’t have to answer that question,” you reply coyly.

“Oh yes you do, I’m awake now.” He props his chin on his fist. “My endless charm? My wit?” 

“Definitely your biceps,” you reply with an eye roll. Not that he doesn’t have nice arms.

“Ouch.” He clutches at his heart, grimacing in fake pain. “I forgot that you just want me for my body.” 

“To be honest…” You press your palm over your eyes, sighing. “I do really miss that you’re so big, and like… warm,” you finally admit. You peek through your fingers and he’s smirking.

You cross your arms and try to hide your genuine heartsickness with a pout. “It’s so cold in my room right now. It was never this cold when you were here with me.”

"Seven weeks,” he reminds you. “Seven weeks and we’ll see each other again.”

Not soon after that, you think, he’ll have to fly back to school to start practicing for the next football season. You’ll have to work your summer job. Then, school will start up again, and both of your schedules will fill up with classes and long nights studying and him travelling for football. You might not see him in person again until late November. The honeymoonof it all will end, and it sounds exhausting and terrifying. And yet—

“I love you, Steve,” you tell him. 

It’s not the first time the thought has occurred to you, but you’ve never said it out loud. You didn’t even entirely mean to say it just now; the four easy words just left your mouth.

You blink at each other. 

He says, “This is not—”

You’re mortified. “Oh, I mean, you don’t have to say it back, I didn’t mean—”

“No no no, wait, it’s two in the morning and my brain is slow.” He sits up in his bed. “Of course I love you too. I’m all yours.”

_Christ._ Somehow that tugs your heart even more than him claiming you as _his girl._

He adjusts his laptop to fix the camera angle. “I meant to say, this is not how I thought this part would go. I’m not even wearing pants right now, and you love me?”

You break into a smile. “Yes.”

He flops to the side, looking up at the ceiling. “ _Fuck_.” He rubs his forehead with his palm. “Can you just, fly to France really quick?” He mumbles, “I don’t know if I can last seven weeks.”

You ache for him too. “We’ll see each other soon, okay baby?” you murmur. “Just go to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> steve rogers IS baby

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr! @rodrikstark


End file.
